


a touch of you i think i can see

by Anonymous



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Manipulation, Pegging, Queer Themes, Scars, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The problem with Oswald Cobblepot's brand of easy is that it leaves Sofia wanting more.





	a touch of you i think i can see

**Author's Note:**

> just to be clear, everyone in this is Queer As Fuck, thank you for your time

Oswald Cobblepot is easy.

He isn’t like Jim Gordon, who digs bruises into her thighs and glowers down at her with a hunger she’s seen in the faces of far too many men before him.

Oswald’s touch, on the rare occasions that it comes at all, is soft, hesitant at just her knuckle as if he’s expecting it to be slapped away. He reminds Sofia not of any man she’s ever known, but of a horse she’d loved once, Moonbeam, who’d come to her abused and underfed and trembling in its want of a touch it couldn’t help but fear.

The closest thing to sex that Oswald ever asks of her is this: his ankle bared before her, scarred-rough and thin between her hands. Sofia remembers still the first time she’d seen it, on her knees and sliding down his sock with careful fingers. He’d looked away, hot with shame, and Sofia had felt a pity and a thrill akin to the first time she’d pulled a girl’s panties down and stared wet-eyed between her thighs.

Sofia rubs, and hums, and Oswald cries, and it’s easy, Sofia tells herself, the easiest thing in the world.

///

The problem with Oswald Cobblepot’s brand of easy, Sofia soon admits to herself, is that it leaves _her_ wanting more.

It shouldn’t matter, but in the teary shine of his eyes and the twist of his leg she sees and feels a history she can only grasp the silhouette of. She wants to rip it out into the light, look upon it and know what makes him tick, what makes him want so much and so little all at once.

Sick with curiosity one night, she moves to peel away his pants.

The protest is expected, but its gentleness is not (Moonbeam’s defensive kicks, after all, had hurt far worse). Smelling hesitance, and maybe something like desire, Sofia presses forward, watching him carefully, and at last he nods, cheeks red, and she slides them off with all the chaste tenderness of a mother.

His legs are thin, impossibly pale but for the scarring, and Sofia wonders if they’ve ever seen the sun. She imagines him, for just a moment, bare-legged and bare-chested on a Miami beach. The absurdity of it makes her smile.

“What?” Oswald asks, defensive and near-dangerous in a way that reminds her of the fact he’d once almost held a gun on her.

“Your underwear,” Sofia replies, quick on her feet as her fingerpads dig up into his calf. “Black, with embroidered umbrellas, to match your socks. It’s sweet.”

“Oh,” Oswald breathes. She feels his muscles beneath her fingers slacken with the relief of it.

“Umbrellas,” Sofia continues, hands moving up to his knee. “I would have liked to have seen you as Fish Mooney’s umbrella boy, I think.”

She looks up to find Oswald in tears, trembling all over, and thinks that perhaps, in a way, she already has.

///

It’s undeniable that Sofia feels affection for him, an offbeat desire she doesn’t fully comprehend.

Just as often, however, there’s hatred. Blinding and all-consuming.

It creeps up her spine whenever she catches Oswald hurling commands at an underling, red-faced and cruel. They’re terrified of him, she knows, all of them. The whole city. Fearfully worshipful of their king.

Not their king - their usurper. This city belongs to her, after all, the power to command it running through her very veins, and they can’t even spare her a glance.

Sometimes, Sofia’s veneer almost cracks, until Oswald is turning to her, starry-eyed with fluttering lashes, and she reminds herself, nails digging into her palm, that she has a plan to stick to. When she pulls down his sock or peels away his pants on nights like this, she yearns for nothing less than to _fuck_ him, not with feigned love or tenderness or even pleasure, but to fuck him the way Jim fucks her on nights when he’s down on his luck and feeling powerless: brutal, desperate, and unforgiving.

But Sofia’s hands have still never trailed higher than his knee, and while Oswald might _allow_ a fuck like that, she isn’t sure he’d survive it.

And she needs him to survive, if only for a little bit longer.

So she smiles and watches Oswald’s face light up, her fist unclenching at her side.

She takes his ankle between her palms and hums a song she’d once heard her father humming in his sleep, the weight of Gotham city on his shoulders temporarily forgotten.

///

Oswald sits sideways on the desk chair he treats like a throne. His pants and socks lay neatly folded on the floor beside him, scarred leg raised up onto his desk.

Even in his underwear and pristinely buttoned-up dress shirt, the spread of his bare legs is obscene, like Sofia has never seen anyone so exposed. He’s blushing, looking down at the floor, and the rose on his cheeks and ivory of his thighs makes Sofia feel ravenous, dizzy with a power she isn’t sure what to do with.

“I’m not your mother,” she says aloud, and she’s not sure where it comes from.

“I know,” Oswald replies, melancholy. He doesn’t look up.

“It’s better,” Sofia continues, the click of her heels loud as she stalks closer to him, pulling a blade out of the garter concealed around her thigh. “It means I can do this.”

Oswald looks at her at that, staring in red-faced shock as she brings the knife’s tip to the side seam of his briefs. They stare at each other, Sofia’s face and hand still as stone, Oswald’s eyes wide and wet as his skin flushes deeper.

He nods, a tear dropping from his lashes with the motion of it. Sofia cuts up, the fabric splitting, then repeats the motion on the other side.

The torn-up fabric pools beneath his hips. Sofia has never much cared for the sight of a cock, and his is no exception, small and half-erect and purpled at the tip. Still, her skin warms at the vulnerability of the display, at the way his tears intensify and he brings a gloved hand over his face.

“No,” she says, the rebuke gentle. “Look.”

Oswald’s hand drops and Sofia brings her hands to his shoulders, turning him just slightly in his seat. She reaches for the leg not propped up onto his desk and lifts it up and over the arm chair.

Oswald gasps and Sofia has to bite her lip to keep from doing the same. There’s nothing she can’t see now, his legs spread wider than she’d have thought him physically capable of. His balls hang heavy, and beneath: the split of his ass, the dusky-darkened skin within displayed, the shadowy suggestion of his entrance nestled inside.

It’s there that she wants to touch him, so she brings her pointer finger to his lips, slides it in. Eyes closed, he suckles at it, no instruction necessary in a way that makes Sofia wonder who he’s dreamt of doing this to before (she knows there was a man, once, who still to this day makes Oswald’s eyes go dark and who left a scar on him he’s never let her see).

She pulls her finger out with a wet pop and bends to rub her fingerpad up and down his crack, settling, after some teasing, at his hole. Oswald is moaning brokenly, hands gripping at the chair’s arms.

Then Sofia presses in, and Oswald _howls_.

She expects resistance and is surprised to find none, Oswald’s hole sucking her in just as his mouth had. He’s hot inside, walls breathing around her. Once she’s been pulled in all the way to her final knuckle, she wriggles her finger, experimentally, grinning when Oswald tilts himself backward, ass closer to her and legs spreading wider open.

“Good,” she purrs, sliding out and back in. Oswald is writhing and sobbing now. “There’s a good boy.”

Oswald gasps at that, breaths coming in sobs, and Sofia fucks her finger in, out, in, out.

When Oswald’s hand moves to stroke his cock, Sofia stops him.

“No,” she says, soft. “Let’s see if we can get you there with only this.”

Oswald makes a sound at that, louder than ever. It’s pained and grateful at once, and Sofia understands.

She pushes back in.

The way Oswald’s eyes roll to the back of his head makes her feel as if Gotham is already hers.

///

Sofia wonders, sometimes, if Oswald suspects.

There are moments when she catches him staring at her with something wary in the line of his mouth.

Then she smiles, brings a hand to his knee. He smiles back, eyes bright, and the worry passes for them both.

///

Oswald is near naked but for an undershirt he refuses to take off, flat on his back in Sofia’s bed with his ankles hooked up onto her shoulders.

Sofia presses a kiss into the scarred one as she rubs the lubed-up head of her strap-on against his rim.

“There you go, baby,” she purrs as she pushes in and watches his his mouth drop wide open in a silent scream. “You can take it.”

And take it he does, fingernails scrabbling at her bared back, face wet with tears and sweat and spit as he screams and begs for more.

When he comes, features twisting in helpless ecstasy, Sofia doesn’t even need to turn the vibrator in her harness on to follow suit.

///

Oswald’s ankle is in her hand, a happy moan between his lips.

Sofia massages, humming softly and hoping Oswald can’t feel the tremor in her hands or the wobble in her voice.

He has no idea that the end of his reign has already come to pass, that he sits on a throne that’s already been stripped of all meaning as he sits here, wet-eyed and relishing a touch that was never really his.

The sounds of a scuffle outside his office hit the air, the first harbinger of his doom.

Oswald’s eyes snap open.

Sofia meets them with her own and gives him one last smile.

She wonders if he can see her heart breaking as clearly as she can feel it.


End file.
